Goodwood Festival of Speed. What an event this is. Every year, more than 300,000 visitors come to what is essentially a moving car museum, populated by legendary cars and famous drivers. A kind of Louwman Museum Open Air, but in a chic British atmosphere. Think Wimbledon. Straw hats, linen jackets, and cocktails instead of lukewarm beer from a plastic cup.
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A greater contrast with my place of stay is almost unimaginable. I will spare you the details of the rat hole in Portsmouth, where I left after exactly one night. Due to the huge crowds around Goodwood, everything in the area was fully booked and I moved to Brighton. Also known as London by the Sea.
A wonderful coastal town that is buzzing. Amsterdam meets Scheveningen, you could say. Pubs, beach bars, a lively boulevard, an iconic pier, and a vibrant nightlife. My hotel is located on St. James’s Street, perhaps best compared to the Amsterdam Zeedijk of the past. A colorful street full of special pubs where gays, transvestites, and transgenders come together. Tattoos seem to come free with a carton of milk here, because literally everyone is inked from head to toe.
As if the stay wasn’t adventurous enough, I woke up the next morning before the alarm clock to a strange noise. “Well, you can really hear it when the neighbor is taking a shower,” I thought. After a few minutes, I didn’t quite trust it and opened the bathroom door. There, water was gushing out with full force from under the sink. I opened the cabinet and immediately saw the culprit: a burst pipe.
Within minutes, the bathroom was flooded and water started flowing into the hotel room. I sprinted to the reception. Closed. Of course. Then I called the emergency number, where an AI voice mostly very kindly explained that I should be patient. The water didn’t care much about that.
Back in the room, I heroically tried to turn something on the pipes, but to no avail. By now, even the hallway was flooding. After about half an hour, someone from the hotel finally appeared and shortly after a technician came who turned off the main valve. Two hours later everything was dry again, the pipe replaced, and peace returned to my temporary accommodation. On to Goodwood.
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Not a pub tiger but a pub parrot
After a blisteringly hot workday, I plopped down in a pub opposite my hotel in the evening. Just a pizza, a pint, and watching the World Cup football. On a perch next to the bar sat a huge blue macaw. Occasionally he casually walked through the pub or went outside for a bit. No one batted an eye. England remains a special country.
The next evening I settled again in the same pub. The football was on, but following it was impossible. The whole bar was full of transvestites holding a karaoke night. The place was completely upside down and to be honest: the atmosphere was fantastic.
I ordered a barbecue chicken pizza, because the English cuisine is known worldwide for its culinary highlights after all, and sat down next to the empty birdcage.
The macaw was nowhere to be seen. While I unsuspectingly ate a slice of pizza, my gaze lingered on that empty cage. Wait a minute… Am I secretly eating a pizza parrot here?
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Read all about the Belgian GP here
